Aftershocks
by Minici
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John's life is normal. Boring. Until a certain detective wanders back into his life again. Reunions all around.
1. Chapter 1

For the first few months, John Watson felt like someone had scooped out pieces of his limbs and chest and filled them with lead weights- empty, heavy. The pain of losing his best friend- if that was the word for it, was there a word for what they'd been to each other? Flatmates certainly didn't cover it- drove him to his therapist. The hole Sherlock left in his life threatened to tear him apart.

At Sherlock's side, John had been the assistant/friend/blogger to the only consulting detective in the world- sure, they'd made the job up, but nobody could deny he'd been daring and useful, a voice of reason or a steady shot as needed. So much more than an ex-army doctor with a strange thirst for danger.

Now, John was a linchpin that held nothing together, a broken part to a machine that had been smashed apart on a sidewalk. He didn't have to stop anyone from blowing up their flat on a regular basis. Or figure out how to get bloodstains out of coats. It was rather… well. Boring. Having known Sherlock, having chased danger down the streets of London, he couldn't return to the person he'd been. But there was no longer any place for someone like him.

So he rode the bus to and from work every day. He bought groceries- still practically the same amount as before. He patched victims up instead of preventing them. He was never late for his shift. He owed Sarah no more favors for covering for him while he tried to save a certain crazy genius from himself. If John kept this up, he'd be promoted soon. Which just made him want to scream, really, because no, that was not okay. Because Sherlock was dead in some hole in the ground and everyone at work was pleased with John, thought he was doing well. Thought he was doing better.

Not Sarah. She'd walked in on him staring blankly at the wall today after his 6th patient and forced him out to coffee. John attempted his usual polite smile at her as they slid into a booth.

Sarah placed her mug down and frowned at his expression, managing to make it look sympathetic. Not that it put John at ease, really.

"Explain," she said, wrapping her fingers around the mug and fixing him with her gaze. John sighed. Resistance was futile. She was right. He should talk about it.

* * *

"Hello," John said, getting up when he heard the door click open, stretching subtly. "I'm Dr. Watson. How can I help you?" He was out of sorts from a long day, but kept it out of his voice.

A good idea, as the boy slipped in the door like he wasn't sure he belonged there, one arm tucked behind his back, the other in a makeshift splint at his side. He was skinny, with a mop of curly black hair. Pale too. In pain, then, from whatever he did to his arm.

"Fell down the stairs," he said, shifting his arm in John's direction.

"Ah, bad luck," he said, examining the proffered limb. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Not really," he said. "Not as much as if it were broken, I think. It's just my wrist, from where I tried to catch myself."

"Well, you could still have hairline fractures. You should get it x-rayed. Is it okay if I remove the splint to get a better look?"

The boy glanced off to the side. "Could I just leave it on, and get it x-rayed?"

"Well, you'll have to take it off for the x-rays, but if you'd rather they examine you, that's fine."

"But it must be bad to take it off, right?" he said, pulling his arm back.

"I promise we'll be gentle," John said soothingly. "It's important. If a splint's done incorrectly, the bone can set wrong, and have to be re-broken."

"Re-broken?" the boy said, shifting his weight uneasily.

"A chance. This way's much easier, I promise," John said, lightly holding his gaze.

The boy stared back for a moment, shoulders slumping minutely. "Okay," he said dully, putting his arm on the table.

John considered reassuring him, but it would probably backfire. Instead, he set about removing the splint as gently as possible. It didn't seem to matter- the boy radiated tension. Finally, John undid the last of the cloth bandage holding the splint in place.

John stilled. The wrist did appear to be fractured, based on the swelling and coloration. It was also covered in thin, white scars and inflamed cuts. One of them looked like it had been made only this morning.

"It's a good thing you came in. It does look fractured," he said, keeping his tone light and his eyes fixed on the wrist. The boy swallowed and relaxed, slightly. "Don't move. I'm going to get some disinfectant."

He soaked a cotton ball and ran it gently over some of the scrapes from the fall. Then he moved on to the most recent cut. The boy flinched. John looked up.

"I'm sorry, I never caught your name."

"Adam," he said, largely avoiding his eyes.

"Adam." John smiled at him and moved on to the next cut. Silence fell as he cleaned each one carefully.

"Could I see your other wrist?" he said carefully, when he was done, keeping his voice steady.

Adam hesitated, but brought it from behind his back and placed it, too, on the table, not looking at him anymore. John pushed up his sleeve. It was the same as the other one, except some of the cuts were deeper. Self-harm didn't necessarily imply the victim was suicidal- there were many reasons for it- but it seemed to be the case here. John tried not to think of another wrist, pale and unresponsive on the pavement.

"Has this been going on for a long time?" he said, striving for a professional tone.

Silence. "No," Adam finally said, grudgingly.

"Just this year then?" John prepared another cotton ball and set to work.

"Yes."

"What happened this year?"

A pause. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No."

Another pause. This was the point where he was supposed to impress the dangers of self-harm on the patient and recommend a good therapist. Maybe call the boy's parents. Adam looked like he was going to bolt at any moment. John made sure he was looking at the arm again.

"There's a reason for everything, even if nobody else can see it," he said, softly. "I had a friend. Looked a lot like you." The words felt strange in his mouth. He never talked about it like this, but if it would help… "Last year, he jumped off a building. I'd give anything to know why. Will you tell me why?"

Adam swallowed.

"It would help me. And it might help you."

Adam sucked in a breath.

"It's just- everything," he said in a whisper, shoulders slumping even further. And that was all it took. He didn't stop talking for half an hour, voice trembling. By the end of it, he looked miserable and fragile, surrounded by used tissues, his fractured wrist re-splinted for the moment- but he'd agreed to a therapist along with the x-rays. John sent him out the door with a professional, worried smile, and collapsed into his chair. Sarah found him 30 minutes later.

* * *

"Adam?" Sarah mused when he finished. "He's been in before. I'm afraid that last time Bertie dealt with the boy. Tried to 'talk some sense into him.' It's wonderful that you got through to him, John."

Sarah was right. He should be pleased. Adam was proof that he could directly benefit others with his experience. Was he a functional member of society again? Wonderful. Outside the coffee shop window, the world remained vague and colorless.

"It is our job," he said.

"It must have been difficult all the same."

John glanced back and gave her a terse smile.

"Yes. Well, thank you for the tea and company, but Mrs. Hudson will worry if I'm not home soon," he said.

"Of course, don't want to keep her waiting," Sarah said graciously.

Excuses made, façade maintained, John paid for his coffee and headed for the bus stop. When the number 57 came, he sank gratefully into one of the seats near the front- the ones reserved mainly for the infirm, the injured, and the people with crapped-out legs too stubborn to use a cane as often as they should. He tried not to think about the empty flat waiting for him.

The best way to get over the detective's death would have been to move out and move on, like any sensible person would recommend. He'd thought about it, after a few months had passed and he was still putting two mugs out in the kitchen. But John's life was so sensible, so routine with his job and his groceries. Like nothing had ever happened to him.

He'd kept the flat. The memories there were painful, but they were proof his brilliant flatmate had existed, and Mrs. Hudson was just downstairs for tea and reminiscing whenever he needed it. And sometimes, when the reporters closed in, he needed it.

···················

John found more solace when Lestrade called one rainy morning, four months post-Sherlock.

"Hello, John," the Inspector said, his voice rough, familiar. "How are you getting on?"

"Fine, I suppose," John said, bemused, stifling a spark of nostalgia. "And you, Greg?"

"Well, I haven't slept easy, I can tell you that. You see the murders in the papers?"

"Yes," John said slowly. "Nasty business, with the paper cutters?"

"Right," Lestrade said, and hesitated just a bit too long. "Listen…"

"Greg, I'm not him. I'm not Sherlock," John said, gripping the phone tighter. He was tired from another ordinary day spent handing out cold medications, restocking the fridge, and doing nothing in his flat. Well, breathing.

"Yes, but-"

"I know what you're thinking, but I can't do what he did. I don't even know why he brought me along half the time. I was always just as baffled as you whenever he went haring off."

"Right. He was hard to follow. But don't sell yourself short. Half the time it was you tackling the criminals so we could take them in. Besides, you were with him the most…"

And John smiled for a second, because Lestrade cared, and he cared more than he cared about public images if he was trying to call him about a case. Not surprising on reflection, but gratifying.

"I know. It was fun while it lasted, Greg, but I can't help you." He really wanted to. But it was true- he couldn't. That usefulness was done. "I've got to go. Lasagna's going to burn."

It was a terrible lie, so poorly delivered that Sherlock might have been more amused than exasperated by it. He really was off his game today. Lestrade, least idiotic of the policemen, wasn't fooled.

"Okay. Don't be a stranger, yeah? How about I call you for drinks after this mess has blown over?"

"Sure," John said, the silence of the flat ringing loud in his ears. "I'd like that."

They did go out for drinks a few times. Whenever a few too many months had gone by for the Inspector's liking, or when John was feeling particularly trapped.

"S'all my fault, really," the Inspector said, the third time. They were at O'Hanlon's, a rough little pub near the outskirts of town- away from the many landmarks of Sherlock and his cases. If it weren't snowing so hard, they'd be able to catch glimpses of fields. John looked up from contemplating the rings of foam in his stout, noting that Lestrade was certainly on his way to drunk. Not that he could blame him. There was another serial killer loose in London, targeting young girls.

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock… Jumping. Not being here, to stop us from tripping over our own bloody feet." He gazed darkly down at the counter. "If I hadn't gone along. Handcuffed him, tried to bring him in. If he knew not all of us thought, you know, maybe he wouldn't have-"

"No," John said firmly, putting down his glass. "No, Sherlock's- it wasn't your fault. He knew you didn't believe Moriarty. You warned us you were coming, remember?"

"Yeah. But it didn't help, did it? Still came. Still treated him like some bloody criminal. He still jumped." He scoffed. "Why didn't he bloody run before we got there, if it bothered him that much?"

"I don't think it did, really. He didn't exactly have trouble escaping. I'm the one who made a fool of myself and decked a police chief."

"Right," Lestrade said, casting him an amused glance. "And as thanks for that, Sherlock took you 'hostage.'"

"I can't believe that worked," John said, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Oh, it was ridiculous all right. Didn't matter. The threat had to be taken seriously." He chuckled. "Though I wasn't particularly worried for your safety after you two'd gotten away."

"Thanks for that," John said.

A group of people traipsed in from outside, cheeks and noses red, cheerfully loud and yelling for some pints. John sighed.

"The point is, Greg- it wasn't your fault. Sherlock knew you believed in him. Not that he cared, much."

"Best argument for his case yet," Lestrade said, tapping on the counter for a refill. "But if he didn't care about stuff like that, why would he have jumped?"

"That's just it," John said, frowning down at the countertop. "We're missing something. Something that would have been obvious to Sherlock. In fact, he'd probably be laughing at us right now if he were here."

"Like what?"

John shrugged, tracing a finger through the condensation on his glass.

"We're asking the wrong questions. We're asking why he committed suicide. We should be wondering why he jumped off the roof St. Bart's, in the middle of a case, after blatantly lying to me."

"Right," Lestrade said, catching the look in his eye and putting his own glass down. "Meaning…"

John exhaled, harshly. "Moriarty. Just got to be, why else bother lying to me? More importantly, Sherlock wouldn't jump off a building during the most challenging case of his life unless he was pushed."

"But you saw him jump-"

"Metaphorically, Greg," John said, shaking his head.

"So, not suicide?" Lestrade said, drumming his fingers on the bar.

"The motive doesn't make sense," John said, carefully.

"People do irrational things when they're depressed."

"Even if Sherlock did care what people thought, why wouldn't he try to clear his name first?"

"Maybe he was depressed before then."

"When Sherlock was sad, he kept us up to all hours playing violin. He didn't jump off of buildings."

Lestrade managed to look both pensive and torn. John slammed his fist down on the counter.

"_Why _did I leave him. I should've known something was wrong when he didn't react to the idea of Mrs. Hudson being hurt. You remember that burglar we had?"

"The one that 'fell out of a window' several times?"

"Sherlock knew the call was fake, which was why he didn't react. I didn't realize until it was too late."

"Protecting you from Moriarty," Lestrade mused. "If that's the case, it wasn't your fault, either. Nothing you could have done once Sherlock got the idea into his head."

"I'd rather have been there," John said, voice low.

Lestrade managed a lopsided half-smile. "Sherlock wasn't known for being an accommodating sort of fellow."

"No," John said, face shifting into a wry smile. "No, he wasn't."

"Never thought I'd miss him swaggering in with that coat of his and calling us idiots."

_You have no idea, _he wanted to say.

"Must be something wrong with us."

* * *

John was surprised when the bus creaked to a halt near Baker Street. He'd done it again, gotten lost in his head. He hurried off before he missed the stop entirely. The wind was cold, but at least the phantom pain in his leg had dimmed somewhat.

When he reached 221B, he was more than ready to stretch out on the couch for a bit, maybe read before he went to bed. He pushed the door open absentmindedly, heading straight for the kitchen, where he put the kettle on. He glanced into the living room.

Someone was standing at the window, back to him.

Adrenaline flooded his system, familiar instincts reawakening as his gaze sharpened, taking in every detail of the dark, lumpy outline. Grabbing a knife off the counter, John drifted closer. He paused when he was in striking distance.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

If it was some sneaky reporter, God help him, he would indeed stab the man. But it could be one of Mycroft's. Or a criminal mastermind…

The man's shoulders rose, like he was taking a deep breath. Then he turned.

John's knife clattered to the floor, shock overriding even a soldier's instincts. The usual sharp coat was replaced with something bulky and ill-fitted, but there was no mistaking those piercing gray-blue eyes, those aristocratic features.

Sherlock Holmes was standing in his living room.

"Hello, John," he said, idly, hands in his pockets.

"You're dead," John said. _Breathe. _

Sherlock's gaze sharpened and swept over him, likely deducing everything from what he'd eaten for breakfast to the number of nights John had lain awake last year. He held out a conciliatory hand.

"Actually, no. Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated." A corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, but his eyes remained locked on John, assessing. "By me, in fact. It was necessary-"

"No, I _saw_ you fall," John said, hysteria creeping into his voice. He'd finally gone round the twist. Sherlock could not be standing in his living room. Or was he dreaming?

"You can't always believe what you see, John. You've never-"

"No, no you listen to me, Sherlock, you were dead," John said in a rush. "Dead. On the concrete, in front of me, no pulse, stone-dead." His shoulders shuddered, then stiffened as he took deep, useless breaths, utterly unable to deal with the maelstrom of emotions crashing through him.

Sherlock regarded him with a touch of dismay, clasping his hands behind his back. "Clearly, I'm not. You only thought I was. That was the plan," he said, matter-of-fact.

The _plan?_

"Now, you must understand-"

John punched him. Hard. In the face. Sherlock's head snapped around, and he staggered back into the couch, a hand clapped to his cheek, eyes wide. John glared.

"The _plan, _Sherlock?" he said, and laughed, a horrible, choked sound. "It's been over a year. A YEAR! I thought-" his eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward. "The _plan," _he said again, voice cracking, shoulders drooping.

"John," Sherlock said, stiffly, voice as close to penitent as Sherlock Holmes could ever get- which was not bloody enough for a man who'd committed suicide in front of him- "I did it for you."

John almost hit him again.

"What, Sherlock, what," he gritted out, when the urge to throttle him had passed. "Was so bloody important?"

A sudden intake of breath as Sherlock's eyes fixed off into the distance, hands clasped once more behind his back, and all of a sudden John knew what was coming. Like it was yesterday. The thought was actively painful.

"Moriarty wasn't as good of an actor as his CV made him out to be. His plan was obvious as soon as we ran into him in Kitty Riley's flat. Having discredited my present actions with his Gretel and my past actions with his little exposé, all he had left to do was destroy my future."

Sherlock began to pace, and freed a hand to gesture.

"Now, what was the best and easiest way to ensure the slander stuck, confirming all the other stories as truth and ending the game in one winning stroke? A suicide. Obvious. Murdering me would have unraveled his plot. But a man jumps off a building, and everybody assumes the rumors are true, that he had a reason to do so."

Sherlock stopped, spun to face John.

"I did. Moriarty had three snipers. If I hadn't jumped, they'd have shot you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. But having guessed his endgame, I was prepared." He began to pace again. "I chose the time and place of our meeting, during which Moriarty killed himself rather than face me interrogating him."

Sherlock grimaced.

"Unfortunately, that rather forced my hand. His orders were not contingent on his death. I was forced to jump, to take the risk and carry on the charade until the snipers and his second-in-commands were also finished. Of course, I never did hit the pavement. That was an illusion of timing and sight. A magic trick, one which everyone believed so easily."

Sherlock slid his gaze back to John's, like he had at the end of many other explanations, almost as though looking for exclamations of approval.

"_Brilliant," _John finally said, once the silence had grown painful. "And you couldn't have told me this a year ago? Or, I don't know, before you jumped!"

"Don't be an idiot, had they suspected for one moment that I was alive you would have been summarily shot and it would have all been for nothing. I couldn't take the risk."

_You still could have told me you wanker! _"Oh? And why not?" John said, dangerously.

"Could you have faked the grief, had you known? Would you have risked your life on it? Would you have risked Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson's?" Sherlock asked.

John stared. This was the reason for all the suffering of the last year? Sherlock being overcautious? He laughed. It'd never occurred to him, because the idea was so absurd. No-this was Sherlock not understanding why the risk would have been worth it. A familiar headache stirred and he looked away from Sherlock for the first time since he'd seen him standing in their flat.

"And then you just walk in here- and what?" he said quietly, hands tensing into fists again at his side. "You expect me to welcome you back with open arms? Like nothing's happened?"

A terrible silence fell.

"I just thought you should know," Sherlock said, just as softly, apparently examining the wall he'd once filled with bullets, which John had plastered over. He abruptly locked gazes with John once more. "But yes," he said stiffly. "I assumed you would be at least somewhat happy to see me again, once everything was sufficiently explained."

He swept his gaze over John- posture still unyielding, fists still loosely clenched. For one terrible moment, a look of agony crossed his face.

"So," he said, and blinked, face going perfectly smooth. "Now you know." He drew his coat tightly about him and swept towards the door.

John's brain derailed.

"Wait!" he breathed, grabbing at Sherlock's wrist and catching it as he passed. Sherlock stilled in the doorway, shoulders rigid. When it became obvious he wasn't just going to sweep out in a huff, John took the opportunity to relax his grip and slip his fingers around so they rested on Sherlock's radial artery. He waited- one, two seconds-

His eyes closed in relief. A pulse beat, strong and fast beneath his fingertips. He started to count, smiling faintly as the nightmares, the _memories _of a dead, unresponsive hand in his grip began to burn away like fog in the morning sun. And everything started to make sense again.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring down at him like he thought he'd gone mad.

"So now I know," John agreed. He wasn't dreaming after all. No dream of his would be so kind as to give Sherlock a pulse. He looked, really looked at the man in front of him. Skinnier than before, yes, annoyingly stupid for the last year, yes, but alive. Alive, after all this time. How wonderful.

"Yes, sound analysis, _doctor_. I am indeed, living," Sherlock said, his voice frosty but his eyes assessing. He moved to pull away.

"Just give me a minute here," John said, quietly, keeping his fingers on Sherlock's pulse. _Just give me a minute, Sherlock, to revise my entire worldview. _After a few more seconds he felt the aborted movement as Sherlock went to shift his weight uneasily. John released him, and Sherlock slipped his hand back into his pocket. He gazed pensively at John.

"I don't mean to impose-" he started, warily, and John was supposed to be mad, was still mad somewhere, but he couldn't stand the look of unease, the restraint that rested so oddly on Sherlock's sharp features.

John stepped forward and clasped him in a hug. Sherlock froze. Understandable. But if there was ever a time for hugs, it was now.

"Actually, this is still your flat," he said, muffled, into Sherlock's coat. "Unless you're imposing on yourself?"

"Is it?" Sherlock said, like he was inquiring what the weather was.

"_Yes, _you idiot," John laughed, releasing him."Now, you're not going anywhere until I fix you a cup of tea and biscuits at least, so stop standing there like a twit, and come inside."

At first, Sherlock just blinked. But as John watched, one of few genuine smiles broke across his face. "John," he said.

"Stubborn git," John murmured.

They headed for the kitchen.

"Your face will certainly bruise," John said, sounding a bit too cheerful about that, probably, not that anyone would blame him. "But I'd like to make sure it's nothing worse than that."

"Right," Sherlock said, smiling faintly. John pulled out two mugs and put the kettle on.

"Also, you're not to go out of my sight for the next week, at least," he informed him.

"Quite. And if I refuse this illogical, possibly impossible, request?"

"Well, then. Your cheeks will match. Could look interesting."

Sherlock huffed. "Fine, I will endeavor to remain within eyesight for the time being. Though if you think I am accompanying you out to the surgery, you are even more of an idiot than I thought you were. Now, where have you put my things, you have kept them, right?"

"Just came back from the dead and thinking of moving in already?"

"Well, you did say it was still our flat."

John smiled brilliantly.

"I did, didn't I. Of course, the lease might disagree, but legalities never stopped you."

"And the obvious never stopped you from stating it. Now, where are my things?"

"Tea first," John said, and Sherlock sighed and flopped on the sofa.

When John came out with a platter of biscuits and the mugs, Sherlock was sprawled all over like he'd never left.

"Eat," John commanded, after Sherlock only took a sip or two of tea, and possibly those just to placate him.

Sherlock pulled a face, wrinkling up his nose.

"You're not on a case right now, so eat."

With exaggerated, tragic-looking movements, Sherlock took a biscuit from the plate and popped it into his mouth. He chewed even more ostentatiously, rolling his eyes, then took a sip of tea and swallowed.

"You haven't changed a bit," John observed. He leaned forward, feeling over the bruise he'd left on the man's cheekbones carefully, palpating slightly to check for more serious problems or fractures. He pressed on a spot just below the cheekbone itself, and Sherlock flinched away, hand catching on the plate of biscuits as he jerked, and sending it and his cup of tea flying.

"Sherlock!" John cried, pulling back.

He glanced around, noting the splatters of milk, tea, and fragments of the mug and plate scattered around the room. He shook his head and pressed once more on Sherlock's cheekbone to be sure. Just a bit sore then. His eye caught the miniature destruction around him again as he pulled back, and this time he chuckled. He found once he started, he couldn't stop. He could only giggle helplessly at Sherlock as the man quirked a brow at him. Which was just delightful, really, that Sherlock was here doing that and breaking things, and John laughed harder as Sherlock's face twitched into a scowl.

When he finally wound down a bit, John just looked at him, blinking away a few hysterical tears.

"Thank you," he said, at last.

"For what, eating my biscuits? My genuine pleasure," Sherlock said, dryly. "Now, my things? There are some experiments I have been dying to perform, but I didn't have the proper equipment."

"Oh no you don't. Mrs. Hudson's got the keys to the storage, so you're going to have to tell her you're alive. And we can't have you passing out on her while you're trying to prove how 'fine' you are, so you're eating more of these biscuits, first."

"One time I pass out during a case, and you never let it go."

"Never," John promised cheerfully.

"Hardly scientific, John. In how many cases did that _not _happen? More studies-"

"Let's have a go at those biscuits then," John said, tuning him out and scooping up the ones that had remained on the table or plate shards. He gave half of them to Sherlock and ate through the rest of them himself. Sherlock complained the whole time. John just sat in companionable silence, doling out the occasional stern look with all the inner glee of an overenthusiastic primary school teacher.

Beneath the blazing happiness that had overtaken him, he was still upset. But it didn't matter at the moment, because sitting here on the sofa with Sherlock felt like destiny, felt like home, felt like breathing again after being underwater for a year, three months, and two days.


	2. Chapter 2

John decided they should break the news to Mrs. Hudson slowly. Just in case. No need to frighten her out of her wits or anything, like Sherlock had done to him.

"Wait in the stairway, you git," he scolded Sherlock. The man was far too impatient to have his things unpacked and the flat looking the way it used to. And if John wanted to see the flat back the way it used to be just as desperately, he most certainly was not going to let it show. Sherlock had probably already deduced he felt that way, but he couldn't make it too easy for him.

He rapped on the door. He could hear Mrs. Hudson puttering about inside, putting things down. Finally, she answered.

"Oh, John! Nice to see you up and about," she said. She was in her nightgown, but didn't seem to mind.

John grinned at her. "Mrs. Hudson," he said.

She looked quite startled.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Yes. Perfectly fine, Mrs. Hudson," John said, still grinning.

She looked unconvinced. "Well, do come inside. I haven't cleaned up much, but there are some fresh brownies if you'd like one. Mind, I didn't make them for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said, dutifully taking one off the plate she passed over.

"Would you like some tea? I've just put the kettle to wash, but I can make more."

"Don't worry about it."

Now she looked even more confused.

"John Watson, what is going on?"

He took a deep breath, trying to settle his expression. "Mrs. Hudson, I am going to tell you something extraordinary. You're going to have to bear with me."

She fidgeted with her hands, wringing them together before got ahold of herself and sat down, wrapping her fingers around a mug of tea instead.

"Don't worry. This is an entirely welcome surprise- it's just a tad startling. First, you should know that even medical professionals make mistakes. Ordinarily, not of quite this magnitude, but they do. I should know."

"Did something happen at the surgery today?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson, nothing," John said, still grinning. Oh, he was bollocks at this. He was supposed to be the calm, reassuring one here. He probably resembled a manic Sherlock on several nicotine patches.

"Secondly, we were wrong about what happened last year. In fact-"

Several short, hard raps sounded at the door.

"Oh, who could that be?" Mrs. Hudson said, moving to get up.

"Forgotten about me already, John? Quit chatting and let me in, there are clearly brownies in there."

Mrs. Hudson paused. She glanced back at John, wide-eyed.

"I thought you weren't hungry," John called reprovingly, an attempt somewhat marred by the fact that he was now grinning like a loon.

"And I thought you couldn't resist an attempt to fatten me up. It may have been a while since I last ate, aside from those wretched biscuits, and those were no good, you've stopped buying my brand."

Mrs. Hudson was white as a sheet by now. "John?" she said hesitantly. "Is that…?"

The door popped open. Clearly, Sherlock had picked the lock. For fun. He could have waited five seconds.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson shrieked. She enclosed him in a firm hug, then pulled back to study his face. "But how?"

"A long story, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, smiling down at her. "One best told over brownies."

Mrs. Hudson was still studying. Her brows knitted together. "You're right, you are much too thin," she clucked. She bustled off to fill a plate, then plunked the brownies down in front of Sherlock, pulled up a chair beside him, and placed her hand over his free one. Sherlock, uncharacteristically, allowed the touch for a moment before he pulled it away as he nibbled at brownies with his other hand.

"I was never dead, Mrs. Hudson. It was all carefully planned to look like it. It's unfortunate you could not be informed, but matters necessitated secrecy. Thankfully, you and John have gotten nothing done in my absence, and I'm fine, so no harm done- the flat remains largely the same, minus my things, now where are they?"

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, pulling a chair up beside him, her voice a bit squeaky. "It is good to hear your voice again!"

"Oh, don't encourage him," John said, scowling slightly, though his eyes still danced with warmth.

"Nice to know some people appreciate me," Sherlock said.

"Now is not the time for a domestic, boys," Mrs. Hudson chided. "I assume this is what you were going on about, John. I wondered what was up when you came in beaming like that. I can understand why! Sherlock! Alive!"

She beamed at Sherlock, who had now devoured four brownies, and squeezed his hand.

"Of course, you'll have to explain how you did it," she said.

Sherlock was all too happy to oblige.

···················

After visiting with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock seemed markedly more vibrant. John helped him pull all the boxes up from the basement into their flat, back where they belonged, but bodily blocked any attempts by Sherlock to open them.

"No. There is one more person you have to tell, first," John said sternly. "Assuming Mycroft knows already."

"Yes. CCTV, of course. He never did get over me breaking his remote control cars when he was younger; I suspect he's punishing me now with his fascination for those things. Irrelevant, as John, I cannot possibly go out in public like this."

"You'll survive. You've managed so far."

"No, I refuse to appear in public looking worse than you."

John ignored him with the ease of experience. "There's no way you're springing the news on anyone in your old coat and scarf like you never left. This is confusing enough as it is."

"Yes, and you are noble indeed for putting up with all this unfortunate happiness on other's parts about my survival," Sherlock said, brushing by him.

John let out an exasperated sigh as he was knocked back. "I'm allowed to be confused, Sherlock, Besides, the kitchen will never be clean again. At least give me time to mourn the passing of an era before you turn it into a disaster area with your experiments."

"Fine, I've texted Lestrade," Sherlock said, turning, John's pickpocketed phone in hand.

"Sherlock!" John said, grabbing for it. "Please tell me that you didn't just tell the poor man over a text message."

Sherlock waved it above his head, out of reach. It chimed a text alert.

"Don't be silly, the man can hardly see evidence sitting right in front of him, he wouldn't have believed it. I simply informed him you had a matter of great importance you wished to discuss with him. Besides which, people's faces are delightful when faced with the improbable, I'd hardly want to spoil that."

John relaxed and Sherlock checked the phone. "He says he's too busy to meet with you, John. Several murders. How rude. They're probably those fascinating ones involving ribbons they wrote up in the paper yesterday. We'll just have to call on him in person." A manic gleam overtook his eyes.

Well, fine, that was exactly what John had been saying. Then it hit him. A case. Sherlock on a case, mere hours after returning from the dead. John didn't know if he should strap him to the couch, weep, or celebrate.

But then Sherlock swept out the door, and in the end, John just grabbed his coat and followed.

* * *

Unfortunately, Donovan moved to intercept them when they ducked the police tape.

"Sorry, no civilian access," she said, gesturing behind her. Then her eyes locked on them and she stuttered to a stop, one arm still outflung as they fixed her with twin glares.

"Good to see you too, Donovan," Sherlock said, moving to brush by her. "Glad to see your enthusiasm for scrubbing Anderson's floors hasn't waned whatsoever in my absence, though I still cannot understand what you see in the man, he is odious beyond belief."

She reached out an arm to stop him, expression hardening. He tried to duck under and she stepped bodily in front of him. He rolled his eyes.

"Must we do this? The evidence against me is pitiful, there is no warrant out for my arrest, and I'm exempt from your no-citizens rule because of my death certificate. Think of me as a guardian angel, sent to do the job you idiots are failing at- putting a killer behind bars."

"You'll soon be there yourself, freak," she spat. John's hand twitched. He shifted closer to Sherlock.

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock said, whirling on her. "I'll be cleared within the week, and you'll do well to stay out of your better's way until then."

Donovan blinked, disconcerted. Sadly, she rallied. "And you brought your accomplice," she said, crossing her arms. "Should've known he was hiding you out somewhere, freak."

John's eyes narrowed.

"Lestrade invited us. Stop harassing the person most likely to solve this investigation and do your job," he ordered, stepping between her and Sherlock and giving her a long, measured look.

She looked taken aback, so he simply brushed by her, close enough to prevent her from reaching out to stop Sherlock- who followed right behind, his coat swishing with the most familiar sound. And then he was back in place beside John, their steps syncing up to that perfect rhythm, like they were one unit. Like the last year and a half had never happened, and there weren't words for how amazed and grateful he was in that moment, how much he had missed this simplest of things.

They ignored any and all stares they got on their way over-more business as usual, really- and Donovan didn't call after them. Up ahead, Lestrade and Anderson were arguing over the body of a young teenage girl, a green ribbon tied prettily around her neck.

"John?" Sherlock murmured, as they approached.

John glanced over. Clearly, he wanted a show. So help him, John was going to go along this time. He was not feeling particularly charitable to the police at the moment.

John strode straight up to the corpse and knelt at the girl's head, noting that Sherlock had stopped walking just a bit beyond Lestrade and Anderson, but close enough that his eyes were already flicking through all the relevant details.

"John?" Lestrade said, as he crouched down beside the girl. John didn't answer the obvious question, _what are you doing here?_ He just checked the body over, gingerly slipping the ribbon aside to check the throat.

"Dead for over 24 hours. The slit on the girl's throat was made post-mortem," he announced. "There are signs of a struggle in the bruises- she was held down and stabbed in the chest, the actual cause of death."

"Yes, yes, we know all that," Anderson said, and John was pleased to note the man's manners haven't improved a bit. Oh, this was going to be so much fun.

"Judging by the size of the missing shoes, the marks on her wrist, and the way the ribbon is tattered on the ends, you'll find that the killer is a hairdresser who knew the victim well," Sherlock said, striding forward to claim his usual spotlight, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the body. "As usual, you have failed to gather any evidence of actual importance, Anderson."

There was a ringing silence. Anderson was slack-jawed with astonishment, making him look distinctly less pleasant than his usual unpleasantness. Lestrade looked like someone had just hit him over the head with a baseball bat. Unnoticed, John smirked with pride. _Show them, Sherlock._

"If you check with her parents as to her latest hair appointment- easy, she was the type to keep a large, accessible calendar or diary- you may be quick enough to catch the killer before they strike again in approximately two hours, judging by the time frame of the murders." His hands flew as they punctuated his words. "Based on the set of the bruises, the signs of struggle, and the angle the victim was thrown to the ground before stabbing, the killer is female, with broad hands and strong arms, about 5 foot 2. Easy to underestimate. Don't make the same mistake as the victim when arresting her, that wouldn't reflect well on the general standards of Scotland Yard."

His voice dripped with sarcasm. John smirked even more happily. Sherlock stepped forward, towards Lestrade, who was doing a fine job of blinking and looking dazed.

"How-" he said. He paused. "Wh-"

He shot John a glance. John nodded happily, still smirking.

"But-"

"I would be pleased to explain my deductions in further detail if required," Sherlock concluded, clasping his hands studiously behind his back. John was sure he caught a gleam of childish delight as he examined the Inspector, who blinked owlishly.

"But- right," he said, gruffly, "I'll uh, I'll probably need you to- _how?_"

"If this is the state of London's finest, I'm glad indeed that I've returned," Sherlock said loftily.

A disbelieving grin slowly broke across Lestrade's face. He huffed out something that could've been the beginnings of a laugh and shook his head.

"Sherlock," he said, eyes glinting with a happiness entirely disproportionate to Sherlock's scowl. Then he looked around at the small crowd of policemen that had formed and frowned, eyes narrowing and brow drawing downwards again.

"All right, that's enough gawking everybody! Anderson, shut your jaw and get back to work. Everyone else, go arrest the hairdresser."

"Are you sure you should be accepting orders from the freak?" Donovan said from behind them.

Lestrade turned. "_Sherlock's_ name has been cleared. A minor government official," he glanced at Sherlock, "alerted me ten minutes ago that ridiculously thorough evidence had been delivered as to his innocence, Jim Moriarty's existence, and the false identity of Richard Brook." He paused and leveled a stern look at her. "I believe we owe the man an apology, but first we need to catch a serial killer, Donovan. I need you focused on that."

She nodded tightly, and walked away, gesturing for people to follow her. The small audience of stunned policemen dispersed. Sherlock watched her go with a hint of supreme satisfaction, John with relief, relaxing from the tense stance he'd taken up. He noted ruefully that he'd drifted closer to Sherlock again during her challenge.

"Right," Lestrade said, turning to look at them, voice gruff. "I'm going to need you to give a statement right about bloody now on how you survived." He paused. "And then I'm probably going to punch you for the mound of paperwork I'm going to have to complete. God help me."

"Such violence," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes," Lestrade said, smiling warmly as he clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pressing down as though to reassure himself he was real. John could certainly sympathize with that. Sherlock just looked at the offending appendage.

"Why is it that everyone feels the need to poke me when they find out I'm not dead?" he said plaintively, fixing John with one of his humans-are-strange looks.

John laughed. "Sherlock, there is no proper response to someone suddenly coming back from the dead."

Lestrade dropped his hand, scowling now. "Do you have any idea what you put us- what you put John through? You're lucky all we've done is 'poke' you."

Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Actually, I might have punched him," John admitted.

"Did you really?" Lestrade said, looking at him wonderingly. "Good on you."

"And you are all so nice to me," Sherlock said in aggrieved tones.

Lestrade shook his head and smiled, looking at him almost softly. "I can't say just how good it is to see you again, Sherlock. You're welcome here anytime. In fact, stick around while we pull the murderer in."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, sighed like he was truly put upon in this life, and nodded.

"But you won't see me again until you get a real challenge. I thought this would be harder based on how you lot have been mucking around for weeks. Clearly, I underestimated your general incompetence- or maybe you've just gotten slack in my absence. For instance, that chubby policewoman with the bobbed brown hair. She's been keeping the drugs from raids. If uncaught, she'll take more liberties, likely start dealing in favors and police secrets. Can't have her destroying the remnants of your tattered reputation, now, can we?"

Lestrade blinked. "If my reputation's tattered, it's because I stood up for you and you jumped off a building. So let's do the survival story, yeah?" But he glanced over his shoulder at the policewoman in question, who was obliviously collecting evidence bags for storage.

"John, you do it. Just because you lot were too dunderheaded to work it out doesn't mean I have to repeat myself."

"Oh no, you love the dramatics, Sherlock. Only you can tell it the way it's meant to be told."

"You're right, you'd just get the details wrong. Do consult with me before putting this in your blog."

"Why? You can just hack it and change it yourself if it really bothers you."

"And then get yelled at for my pursuit of intellectual truth. How thrilling."

"There's intellectual truth, and then there's being an ass," John retorted.

"You know, I thought I'd missed this," Lestrade said, watching the two of them with a fond smile, arms crossed.

"You did. Obviously," Sherlock announced loftily. "Or you wouldn't have asked us to stay."

"Actually, that's mostly because I'm still not sure if I'm hallucinating," Lestrade said.

"Stating the obvious, Sherlock, really? On with the STORY," John said, laughing.

"Oh, very well."


End file.
